SOMETHING PAINFUL FLASHES THROUGH me at the sight of Antonio walking briskly toward another girl. I tell myself it isn't betrayal or a sense of jealousy. It's only confirmation of a belief that I should have recognized a long time ago: this life will never be mine. He will never be mine. And I'm perfectly happy to let it stay that way, even if people try to convince me otherwise.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I turn away, plastering a smile on my face as I walk toward the dessert table. All the labels are in looping, scrolling Italian calligraphy and I have nut allergies. Maybe, I think, I can poison myself and be airlifted to the hospital, getting me out of the hellhole that I have so willingly, so blindly, mired myself in. Finally, I spot the gelato section and scoop some salted caramel into a bowl, facing the room.

Clutching the cold metal goblet, I watch as Antonio talks to the girl, a strange expression on his face. Anger, I realize. I've never seen him truly angry. He doesn't speak with larger gestures or a louder tone of voice. No, his anger doesn't show any obvious physical signs. All I see is the tightness in his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes.

Eating my ice cream, which is perhaps the only upside of my night, I watch them. The musicians have started playing again, but they stopped when she walked in. Who is this girl--this Lucia? And what makes her so important? Violin music plays, filtering through my mind and providing a mournful backdrop for my thoughts.

"You look far too curious for your own good." A golden-skinned woman with dark eyes, her chestnut hair falling to her shoulders in soft barrel curls, greets me in a lilting Italian accent. She extends a hand, studying me like an insect she's deciding whether or not to crush. "I'm Monica. Monica Esposito."

"Christina Martell. How do you do?" I say.

I'm not going to say, nice to meet you when that would be a lie. Perplexed by her first statement, a twinge of annoyance tics in my jaw at the way she so easily found me out. It's just another reminder that I'm out of my element, a fish flopping on dry land and desperately trying to get back into the ocean. Or even a fishbowl. I'm not picky. But no one's going to so much as dump a bucket of water on me. Okay, maybe I took that metaphor a little too far.

"I'm fine, but I'm not here to talk about myself." The smile on her lips is painted red but slightly smeared, making her appear as though she'd eaten something bloody. From the look on her face, she might have well torn out a man's heart with her teeth. "Oh, there's my friend! Here, Christina, I'd like for you to meet my friend, Marcia Orsini."

Monica waves over a petite brunette, their combined statures making me feel as though I tower over both of them in my heels. I shake her hand. It was small and cold, fingers trembling. Though her features resembled Monica's more closely than mine, I thought that... She looks like me, like a girl caught in a trap, in over her head. Scared. Overwhelmed. I squeeze her hand once.

I try to smile in some polite facsimile of etiquette, still holding my ice cream cup awkwardly. "It's nice to meet you, Marcia."

There's something skittish in the way she quickly releases my hand, not meeting my gaze. "Same for you, Christina."

"So, how did you meet Antonio?" Monica asks, quickly steering the conversation toward a topic that suits her liking. Something prickles at the back of my neck, and I suck in a quick breath. God, let me rely on Your strength and wisdom to get through this...

"On Tinder, actually," I say, the fake grin still plastered on my face. "How did you meet him?"

She laughs, as though I've told a hilarious joke. My hackles rise, goosebumps forming on my bare arms. "Oh, you're so funny. No wonder he kept you around this long. That's unusual for Antonio, isn't it, Marcia?"

Well, that's another strike against her in my book. My teeth grit unintentionally, the smile dropping from my face. "What, exactly, are you talking about?"

"You know..." Marcia toes the parquet floor with her Louboutin. Viciously, I hope it scuffs before I stop myself. It's petty. Love your enemies, and bless those who curse you... "He's kind of a playboy."

"Are you gossiping about my brother?" I look up with relief, trying not to let my shoulders slump. It's one of Antonio's sisters. Average height, black hair, blue eyes, and a gleam in her eyes that speaks of mischief, lighting her pale skin from within. What's her name again? All I can remember is that it starts with an A... "I know that's your favourite pastime, Monica, but surely you can find a more productive one? Maybe be more creative and take up, I don't know, knitting, or painting or something. Something you can be proud of."

I remember her name now. Allie.

"Come with me, Christina." Allie slings an arm around my shoulders despite being a few inches shorter than me, her smile more genuine than my saccharine one. "Let's go get something to drink. You look parched."

When we've situated ourselves at a safe distance from the girls who are doubtless still harping on about what just happened, Allie smiles at me. "I had to save you from them. They're the worst... just a pair of harpies."

"Thank you, Allie. I appreciate it." And I do, but part of me, despite the cruelty with which they behaved, wonders what else they might have told me. I wonder what secrets they might have spilled from poisoned tongues, things that no one else seems willing to share with me. Then again, maybe I've had enough of the truth to sustain me for a while now.

"Come on, let's go see if my brother is free now." She loops her slender, pale arm through mine, accentuated by the gold gown she wears. It's fringed, worn with a string of pearls and a feather headband that makes me think of the flappers back in the twenties.

I stutter, wanting to form a protest, but it dies on my lips when we run directly into Antonio, who looks... worried? His brows are furrowed, fists tight at his side as he walks briskly. No, not walks--runs. Like he's being chased. Lucia is nowhere in sight. Did they get into an argument? He certainly didn't look happy to talk to her, despite how quickly he beelined toward her when she first entered the room.

The last time I saw him look like this, a window had just been broken. Glass was all over the floor. And he was on top of me, protecting me from imminent danger. Something clenches low in my gut at the sight of him, not in control as he typically is. Not as in command, not as steely and composed. It feels wrong. It feels positively awful.

"What's wrong?" I ask before I can summon any bitter invectives to hurl at him. I don't have the heart for it, anyway, not after dealing with those bullies. And I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. He comes to an abrupt stop before us, as though he hadn't seen me or his sister at all. The stop is too abrupt because he's too close now, his height and strength suddenly dwarfing mine. "You seem... off."

I rest my hand on his forearm, trying to get him to realize that we're standing right in front of him. He jerks awake, his gaze meeting mine as one of his hands relaxes to cup my face. His voice is hoarse, but his tone is tender, somehow. Soft. "Christina."

"Mr. Cavalli." I catch myself, though his body heat makes me want to fall into his arms and quit pretending to be angry with him. I should step back, let his hand fall away, but I don't. "Did something happen?"

"Lucia has a way of upsetting me, that's all." He nods toward Allie with an expression that's half-grimace, half-grin. His thumb brushes my lower lip almost absently, his gaze not even on me, yet the gesture as intimate as ever. Is this how he always is? Doling out affection with one hand and building a wall of frozen distance with the other? "You know how she is."

Allie makes sympathetic noises. "We were just headed toward the bar. Come get a drink with us."

He frowns. "Christina doesn't drink."

"They have sodas, right?" I say slowly, touched that he remembered that from our first date. Something inside of me unthaws, warming up. No! I need the ice to preserve me, to keep my heart safe from a man who will doubtless break it, at least once.

He nods a bit, but his eyes are still far away. Yet another reason I shouldn't care about him. Yet when his hand moves from my face, I feel cold. And when he holds mine with it, making me feel small and protected, I let him.